Sex And The City 2 Review: Don’t Carrie On


satc2300x210SEX AND THE CITY 2: On General From Friday 28th May

Having negotiated the absurd scrum in Leicester Square, the sheer volume of womanness dawned on me. I wasn’t here to watch a film, I’d come to partake in a ritual. I had never been in an enclosure with so many of the opposite sex before; for all I knew, my menstrual cycle had started and synced with hundreds of strange females. And Kimberly Walsh.

To satisfy this gasping, sighing throng SATC2 did everything it could to cram the most amount of over-indulgence, terrible motherhood and brash language into an overly long film.

Without wanting to ruin it, the girls have lunch and then go to Abu Dhabi. Outrageously, it is absolutely devoid of the most basic twists that films of this nature should have. It simply decides to be the campest, most ‘feel good’ film in the world. Except I didn’t feel good – I felt overwhelmed.

Firstly, almost every scene is about 43 seconds longer than it should be. It reminded me of the time I accidentally rented Apocalypse Now ‘Redux’ (a special elongated version). I didn’t realise why I was so angry and bored at the time. Here, however, I had willingly gone to see the regular SATC2.

Another quick realisation is the use of that ‘sparkle’ sound you get on Barbie doll adverts. Look, there’s Carrie’s shoes…do the sparkle sound. Quick…a smile – do the sparkle sound. To compliment, there were gasps at furniture, clothes and smiles – the biggest of all saved for when a wardrobe was opened. Empire Leicester Square had turned into a throbbing convention for anti-feminists. Everyone in the audience had their best, most revealing clothes on and were prepared to be over-awed by the crappest of things. ‘Oh look – Carrie done an emotion!’

Indeed, I couldn’t get over the fact that everyone had dressed up. It was as if they needed to impress Samantha, Carrie and co. in the hope they might get called on stage and invited to be a 2D image of glamour and shit banter. Imagining being something you’re not is presumably how this film unites the audience. It’s a warped group security, all safe in the knowledge that despite the fact that you’ll never be as hot and fashionable as your idols; you can all bask in the warm, shallow glow of simply wanting to be like that.

And, of course, everyone (even Carrie Bradshaw) is just as miserable as you – they question their existence, they’ll wonder if they’re a dreadful person, and they’ll wish bad things on someone they mildly dislike – but there’s no need to focus on that. As long as some light from the glittery images on screen is reflected onto the fawning civilians in seats, everyone’s happy.

I embarked on SATC2 with an utterly open mind. I thought I might chuckle along and contrive a controversially positive review from a detached, trespassing experience. Unfortunately, it’s just impossible to say much good about this film. Seeing past the laboured dialogue and wooden one-liners, there’s a paper-thin narrative crafted around a group of people I’d never want to meet.